


The Mark

by eternaleponine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, F/F, be gay do crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: FBI Agent Lexa Woods has been assigned to watch a potential suspect in a series of art thefts.  She knows her mark has been painting recreations of famous works, but it is her job to determine whether Clarke Griffin knows what the work is for, or if she's an unwitting pawn.  Set up in an apartment across the street, she's just supposed to watch her.  But a chance meeting in a coffee shop turns everything on its head.For Stormchaser1117 on Tumblr, as part of my Will Write for Votes campaign.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 73
Kudos: 373





	The Mark

"You had one job, Agent Woods," Director Titus said, his voice dangerously low. "One. Job. Do I need to remind you what that one job was?"

"No. Sir." Lexa knew she was supposed to cower under his burning blue gaze, to bend and break under the weight of his barely suppressed rage. He was trying to intimidate her, and it would be in her best interests to at least _pretend_ it was working. Instead, she was struggling not to laugh in his face. 

"Then why don't you remind me," he said, "so I know we're on the same page." 

Lexa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes. It wasn't the first time she'd been called into the director's office for a dressing-down, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last. She was – and always had been – a thorn in the director's side. She was also the best he had, and they both knew it. "I was to locate and observe the mark," she said. 

"Why?"

"To ascertain what role – if any – she plays in the ring of art thieves that has been operating in the United States for the last several months," Lexa replied, keeping her tone even. 

"She plays a role," Director Titus said. "She is supplying the thieves with forgeries of the paintings being stolen, which are hung in the place of the originals in an attempt to avoid detection of the theft for as long as possible, giving them time to get it to the buyer before anyone is the wiser." 

"But it's unclear whether she's aware that that’s the intended purpose of the recreations she paints," Lexa said. "We need to determine whether she's complicit, or just a pawn." 

"But first, we need to observe her. To see where she goes, who she talks to, what they talk about. Not talk to her. Not interact her. _Observe_ her. That was your job. Your _one_ job. Which you have failed at. Spectacularly." 

_You don't know the half of it,_ Lexa thought. At least she hoped he didn't... but if he did, she was pretty sure this would be a very different conversation. One that involved resignation letters and handing over of credentials.

"In my defense, sir," she said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smirking, " _she_ approached _me_."

* * *

**24 Hours Earlier**

Lexa hated coffee. She hated the smell, she hated the taste, and she especially hated the way it made her heart race when she drank too much... which was just about any amount. But the tea selection at this coffee shop was shit, and she needed to stay awake. One of the first things she'd learned about her mark was that she was basically nocturnal, and Lexa had never been good at sleeping during the day. It was becoming a problem.

She could have gone somewhere else, somewhere where she could get something that didn't taste like boiled ass, but her mark was _here_ (as she was just about every day at this time, humans being creatures of habit) and Lexa couldn't risk losing track of her. She tried to blend in with the crowd, which was starting to thin, while watching her mark out of the corner of her eye, lest she decide to leave before Lexa could get back to the shell of an apartment in the building across the street from the mark's that allowed Lexa to watch her comings and goings.

Lexa looked away for one minute – less than one minute – while she doctored her coffee with a criminal amount of cream and sugar, and when she looked back, her mark was gone. She whirled around, thinking maybe she'd gone to use the bathroom, and sucked in a breath when she found herself face-to-face with the woman who she was supposed to see, who was never supposed to see her.

_Shit._

Because the dozens of pictures in her file and the past several weeks' worth of watching from a distance had done nothing to prepare Lexa for the up-close reality of this woman. Glossy photo paper couldn't do justice to the shine of her slate-blue eyes, and the glimpses through windows and across streets, even magnified, had blunted the impact of her cleavage and curves, and Lexa hadn't even noticed the beauty mark just above her lips...

_Shit._

Except she said it out loud, a barely audible gasp... but loud enough that her mark heard it.

"Sorry," her mark said, not looking sorry at all, but she did take half a step back out of Lexa's personal space. "I didn't mean to startle you." But the twitch at the corner of her lips – which Lexa definitely shouldn't be staring at – told her otherwise. 

"Did you need...?" Lexa gestured to the little counter with the packets of sugar and artificial sweetener and jugs of cream and half-and-half and skim milk and almond milk and _pea_ milk? What the hell was— She slammed the brakes on her racing thoughts, dragging herself back into the moment and the situation she needed to get herself out of as quickly as possible.

"No," she said. "I wanted to talk to you. Ask you a favor, actually." 

_Shit._

"What?" Lexa asked, trying to make herself sound as gruff and unapproachable as possible, but of course it was too late for that. 

"I'm an artist," she said. "And I'm always looking for models. The way the light caught your face just now..." She trailed off, her eyes going distant like she was remembering the moment, or maybe imagining translating it to canvas. After a second her gaze snapped back to Lexa. "It wouldn't have to be for long, and I can pay you for your time. I know, I know – sounds totally fake and super creepy. But if you have a little time – maybe an hour or so? – I promise I would make it worth your while..."

_No,_ Lexa thought. _I don't have time. Not even if you flirt with me. Which you aren't doing. Are you? No, you're not flirting with me, and I don't have time even if you are. I have to spend the rest of the night alone, in the dark, eating cold leftover lo mein because the microwave in that shithole is broken, and watching you through your windows. You really should draw your shades, by the way. Never know what creepers might live across the street and have a pair of government-issue binoculars._

She opened her mouth to say almost none of those things, but what came out was, "Sure. Now?"

The mark's eyes lit up and her lips (which Lexa definitely wasn't staring at again) curved in a smile. "Now's perfect," she said. "I'm Clarke, by the way."

_I know,_ Lexa said. _I know all about you._

"Lexa," she said, before she could think better of it. 

"I'm just next door," Clarke said. 

_I know._ "Lead the way."

* * *

"You could have said no," Director Titus said. "When she approached you, invited you into her apartment, you _could have said no_." 

"She caught me off guard," Lexa said, which was both true and a wild misrepresentation of the truth. But she couldn't tell him she'd meant to say no. She'd had every intention of saying no. But then Clarke's eyes had locked with hers, sparkling with a mix of hope and amusement and a complete lack of fear of rejection, and Lexa's plans didn't matter anymore. 

She could try to justify it by saying it allowed her to observe Clarke more closely, to gather information from seeing her space in a way she couldn't through the windows and electronic surveillance. Hell, she could even have claimed some of the equipment was malfunctioning and it had seemed like the most expeditious way to remedy the situation, but she knew the director would see right through the lie. 

"It can't happen again," he said. "If it happens again—"

"It won't," Lexa said. 

"If it happens again," Director Titus repeated, "you're off this case. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Lexa said. "I understand." 

"Then you can go," he said, dragging a file from the corner of his desk and flipping it open, a clear dismissal even without the words. 

Lexa turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the door open behind her because she knew he liked it closed.

* * *

**24 Hours Earlier**

"Make yourself comfortable," Clarke said. "It'll take me a few minutes to get things set up." She disappeared into the room Lexa knew to be her studio, positioned at the front of the apartment because it got better light, Lexa assumed.

Lexa followed her, not sure what else to do, standing in the doorway and watching her – it was her job, after all – as she set out supplies in an orderly row. It was one of the things Lexa admired about Clarke; she was absolutely meticulous about her work. Of course when you were copying paintings, possibly with the knowledge that the replica would be hung in the original's place in a museum while the original was auctioned off to the highest bidder, potentially receiving a cut of the profits, you couldn't have a single brush stroke out of place, could you? 

She sipped her coffee, grimacing at the acrid burn, even through the sugar and cream she'd dumped in to try to make it palatable. She could feel the caffeine hit her bloodstream almost immediately, jolting her heart and sending a spike of panic up to her brain because surely she was having a heart attack. But she wasn't and she knew it, and she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths until the anxiety subsided. 

Clarke glanced over at her and smiled. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asked.

"Where do you want me?" Lexa asked. 

Clarke considered, then positioned a stool near the window, where the last dregs of daylight were streaming through in streaks of burnt gold. "Here," she said. When Lexa sat down, she took a moment to arrange her, and Lexa had to convince herself all over again that she was not having a cardiac event when Clarke's fingers brushed along her jaw, the tip of one finger tracing the curve of her ear as she pushed back a stray strand of hair. "Try to relax," she said. "And I'll try to be quick." 

Lexa tried. She really did try. But it was hard when she knew Clarke was looking at her, observing her with such intensity it made her want to squirm. How could she relax when it felt like Clarke wasn't just looking at her, but _seeing_ her? Like she could look past skin and bone and straight into Lexa's head and heart, and Lexa tried to build up her defenses but then Clarke would bite her lip, letting it slide out from between her teeth as her pencil, or charcoal, or whatever she was using, moved across the canvas in front of her, and they would crumble again. 

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on her. She had been watching and recording every move Clarke made for the past several weeks. Turnabout was fair play, even if Clarke didn't know it. What would she think if she knew? _Did_ she know? Had she seen Lexa before? Maybe Clarke thought she just lived in the neighborhood, which wasn't a complete lie. But maybe she was on to Lexa and had lured her here to—

"You're shaking," Clarke said. "Are you cold?"

Lexa shook her head, then tried to snap it back to the position it had been in, not wanting to ruin Clarke's sketch. "Coffee," she said. "It makes me jittery." 

"Then why drink it?" Clarke asked. 

"Because I'm an idiot," Lexa said. 

Clarke looked up at her, and this time she didn't look back at the canvas right away. "I doubt that," she said. "I doubt that very much." She kept her gaze fixed on Lexa until Lexa had to look away, and went back to her work, apparently satisfied. 

"You can move now," she said, some time later. "I've got what I needed." 

"Can I see?" Lexa asked. 

Clarke shook her head. "It's not done yet. It won't be for a while. But I'd like to do a few more sketches... if you don't have to go right away?"

"Are you going to draw me like one of your French girls?" Lexa asked, the joke slipping out before she could think about the implications. 

Clarke's mouth twitched. "I would never ask that," she said, standing up and stretching, putting her assets on display in a way that didn't feel accidental. "But if you're offering..." 

_No,_ Lexa thought. _No, I am definitely not offering. I need to get back to work. Even if I'm working right now... technically._ But the higher-ups would never buy it, and would flay her alive for it if they ever found out = she'd crossed the line from observer to observed. 

She had to get out of this – out of here – now, before things escalated. Because they had already gone too far. Clarke had not only seen her, but had captured a likeness of her, a permanent record of her presence, and what if she let one of their other marks in and they saw it? She never had before – she'd always kept her distance, leaving finished works at mutually agreed upon drop-off points – but there was a first time for everything. 

_Shit._

Lexa slid down off the stool, preparing to book it toward the door, but Clarke was in her path again, and the warmth radiating from her skin seemed to exude its own kind of gravity, and Lexa's fingers twitched as she fought to urge to reach out and touch Clarke the way Clarke had touched her, even if it had just been business.

Had it just been business?

_I am way too gay for this._

"I'm not—not offering," Lexa stuttered. But in the repetition of the word, she'd said exactly what she hadn't meant to say, had meant _not_ to say, and maybe Clarke knew it from the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, but she wasn't going to call Lexa's bluff, and Lexa wasn't going to admit her mistake, and...

And that was how Lexa ended up naked Clarke's couch, no giant blue diamond necklace around her throat but otherwise a reasonable approximation of Kate Winslet in the iconic Titanic scene, and Clarke was Leonardo DiCaprio, and it was entirely possible that this moment would end in a collision with an iceberg and the sinking of Lexa's career, but Lexa hadn't felt this alive since she couldn't remember when, and that was before Clarke started unbuttoning her shirt to counteract the cranked-up heat so Lexa wouldn't be all over goosebumps. 

"You don't mind, do you?" Clarke asked, the shirt slipping off her shoulders, revealing she wore only a thin tank underneath. 

Lexa's lips shaped the word 'no' but no sound came out, and Clarke must have taken that as a signal that her mouth was dry because she brought over a bottle of water and held it to Lexa's lips, tipping it up for her so she didn't have to move from her pose. 

Lexa licked her lips as she pulled it away, catching a stray drop, and now Clarke's stare wasn't just that of an artist and her subject, and her own tongue darted out to echo the motion. Their eyes locked, and Lexa sat up as Clarke leaned down, and their mouths met in the middle and paper and poses were forgotten. 

"Do you do this with all of your models?" Lexa asked as Clarke straddled her hips, grinding down against her as she brought Lexa's hands to her breasts. 

Clarke leaned into her touch, letting out a soft almost-moan as Lexa's thumbs traced over the not-quite-opaque material, circling her nipples as they made their presence known. "I lied," she said, her hair falling around both their faces, tickling Lexa and making her think about what those silken strands would feel like brushing across other parts of her skin. "I've never asked anyone to model for me before."

It was like an ice cube had been dropped down Lexa's spine, and her fingers tensed, gripping too tight until she forced them to relax, hoping Clarke hadn't noticed. "Then why—" 

Clarke looked at her with eyes gone dark, black holes of desire with only the thinnest rim of blue, like the momentary roughness of Lexa's touch had tipped her from playful desire to pure, unbridled lust, and she might decide to forego answering in favor of ravaging Lexa and reducing her to a state where she couldn't think, much less ask questions. But she pulled herself back, leaning in so her lips brushed Lexa's cheek, then the lobe of her ear, as she whispered, "Because the way the light caught your face," she breathed, "made me fall just a little bit in love with you."

It was ridiculous. It was _insane_. 

Maybe it was a trap.

Lexa fell straight into it... and kept falling.

* * *

She'd told Director Titus it wouldn't happen again.

She'd lied.

It happened again. 

And again.

And again, until it was happening nearly every night. Lexa would watch Clarke through the window while she worked, and then Clarke would stand and stretch and turn toward the window where Lexa made herself invisible, and then her phone would chime and she would wait an appropriate amount of time before showing up at Clarke's door.

They didn't talk much. Sometimes Clarke drew her, but sometimes she was done with art for the night and dragged Lexa straight into the bedroom... and sometimes they didn't even make it that far. The first time was always a little rough and ready, two animals rutting, complete with tooth and claw, marking their territory as they fucked. 

The second time – there was almost always a second time – was slower, more deliberate, less frantic but no less passionate.

The third time... there wasn't often a third time. Because the third time was when they started to unravel each other. The third time was when tongues loosened and they started to say things they meant and knew they shouldn't. Things like, "If you don't stop I think I might die," and "If you do stop I know I will." Things like, "No one's ever made me feel like this, ever, ever..." Things like, "I don't want to go," and things like, "I don't want you to go." 

Things like, "Please stay."

Things like, "Okay."

The fourth time...

The fourth time they didn't need words at all.

* * *

Lexa woke up when her phone start buzzing like a nest of angry wasps in the pocket of the pants she'd discarded on the bedroom floor. She rubbed at her eyes as she reached for them; she hadn't meant to doze off. But the way the light crept in around the shades told her she hadn't just dozed off. She'd fallen asleep, and now it was morning, and Clarke grumbled as Lexa slipped out of her grasp. 

"No," she said, grabbing the phone from Lexa's hand and tossing it to the foot of the bed. "Don't pay attention to that. Pay attention to _me_." 

But Lexa could see Director Titus' name lighting up her screen – or the name she'd put him in under, because she couldn't very well put his real name in – and knew she couldn't ignore it... no matter how tempting Clarke made it, with her tousled hair and sleepy bedroom eyes and a calculated peek at everything that awaited Lexa if she just did as Clarke asked. 

Lexa groaned. "It's work," she said. "I have to—"

"Tell them you're sick," Clarke said. "Tell them there's no way you can get out of bed today." 

Lexa let out a soft huff of a laugh. "I don't really have the kind of job where you can do that," she said, which was more than she'd ever said about what she did when they weren't together, and more than she should have said. It was also true. She would need to be at death's door, with a doctor's note and a second (and probably third) opinion before Director Titus would sign off on her taking a sick day. 

Clarke looked at her, and Lexa felt her skin prickle, and not just from the cold as she slid out from under the sheets. The phone had stopped buzzing, but she knew it would start again any second, with only the length of time it took to leave a terse voicemail in between. 

"Don't go," Clarke said as Lexa sorted through the tangle of clothes to find the ones that belonged to her and put them on. 

Lexa pulled her shirt the rest of the way over her head, and combed her fingers through her tangled hair. "I have to," she said. "I'll come back as soon as I can." 

Clarke held her gaze. She didn't say anything, and her silence spoke volumes. 

"I'll try to be quick," Lexa said, knowing she was digging herself into a hole she might not be able to get out of. She went around to Clarke's side of the bed – except they were both her side of the bed, because it was her bed, and Lexa sleeping in it once didn't give her any kind of claim on any part of it – and slid her fingers into her hair, tipping her face up. But when she leaned down to kiss her, Clarke turned away, and she might as well have sunk a knife into Lexa's gut and twisted. 

Lexa let her go, grabbing her jacket and sliding one arm in as she answered her phone – which was buzzing again, just like she'd predicted – with the other. She heard the click of the lock as the door closed behind her. "Woods."

"I need you in the office," Director Titus said. "Now."

"Can I at least grab a shower and some clean clothes? I've been up all night, and—"

" _Now_."

"Yes sir," Lexa said. She glanced up at Clarke's window, and thought for a second she saw the pale oval of a face there, but it might have been a trick of the dawn light against the pane, and headed for the office.

* * *

"Your new assignment," Director Titus said, slapping a file down on the desk in front of her. "You start now."

Lexa looked down at it but didn't flip it open. She hoped the director would chalk up her sudden paleness to lack of sleep, and not the fact that her heart had just sunk straight to her toes. There were only two reasons she would be receiving a new assignment: they had enough evidence to go in for the kill (figuratively speaking) on the current one, or he'd found out exactly what she'd been up to and was making good on his threat to pull her from it.

But if he knew, surely he would do more than reassign her. She was good – great, even – but she wasn't indispensable. No one was. Even the cogs without which a machine couldn't run were still replaceable. 

And how would he know? Had he sent someone to watch her as she watched Clarke? She wouldn't put it past him. He didn't like things he couldn't control, which was why they'd never gotten along. He'd thought he could mold her into the perfect protegee. She'd proven herself to be made of steel, not clay. Maybe he'd just figured out how to read between the lines of her reports, which were packed with words that said nothing. She never outright lied, but there were so many omissions the pages ought to have been riddled with holes. 

"Is there a problem?" Director Titus asked. 

"Why?" Lexa asked. "There's still—"

"You've told us everything we need to know about Ms. Griffin," Director Titus said. "We have enough pieces of the puzzle to get a good idea of the picture – no pun intended." He smirked, and Lexa knew the pun had been very much intended. She had never found anything less funny. "We're bringing in the key players now, and we have every confidence they will lead us straight to the top." 

Lexa opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. Her eyes burned. All of her burned. Did they consider Clarke a key player? What if they were at her apartment now, dragging her out of bed, cuffing her and bringing her here? What if she walked out of this office and found herself face-to-face with the woman who was never supposed to see her, who had instead seen all of her? What if—

Director Titus loomed over her, and for the first time, she was genuinely afraid of what he was capable of. "I ask you again, is there a problem?" 

"No. Sir." She slid the folder from the desk, gripping it too tight because she was afraid of what she might do if she didn't keep her hands occupied. "I should clean out—"

"It's being taken care of," Director Titus said. "The only thing you need to concern yourself with right now is familiarizing yourself with that file. Your flight is in two hours – I trust you have a go-bag packed? Your driver can stop at your house on the way to get it."

If she'd been pale before, she was sure she was ghostly now. Her blood had turned to ice, and her fingers and toes tingled. Was this what it felt like to go into shock? This couldn't be happening.

But it was. It was all happening, and it was happening _now_ , and there was nothing she could do about it. 

"Of course. Sir." She stood up on legs that felt wobbly as a newborn colt's. "Thank you." She didn't know what she was thanking him for. She didn't know anything except that somehow he'd gotten the upper hand and snatched control of her life without her noticing until it was too late. 

Her driver – a fellow agent, she was sure, newly minted and eager to please – met her at the door and led her to the car. She slid into the passenger's seat before he could suggest she sit in the back and reached for panel to activate the GPS.

"I don't need directions," he said. "I know where we're going."

_That's not creepy at all,_ Lexa thought, but she said nothing, just watched as the familiar streets between office and home slipped by. When he pulled up in front of her building, he started to get out, but she stopped him. "I can handle grabbing one bag on my own," she said. "I promise." She flashed a smile to tell him there was no hard feelings, she knew he was just doing his job, and dashed into the building, making sure the front security door was locked securely behind her before he could get any ideas about following. 

She jogged up the stairs to her apartment, fumbling with her keys with one hand and her phone with the other, dialing Clarke because she had to know. She had to know whether they'd dragged her in or—

She had already started to open the door when she realized the ringing she was hearing wasn't only coming from her phone. 

"Close the door, Agent Woods," Clarke said. 

"Clarke," Lexa said, except it was barely a whisper, only the 'k' truly audible. 

Clarke pressed her finger to her lips. "Close the door." 

Lexa sucked in a breath. Clarke wasn't holding a gun, or any other weapon, but that didn't mean she didn't have one. She slowly lifted her hands, showing she wasn't armed either, and closed the door with a soft click. "How...?"

"How what?" Clarke asked. "How did I know you're a federal agent?" 

_Yes, that, but—_ "How did you get in?"

"I used a key," Clarke said. "How do I have a key? I copied yours. But your keys were never missing – how could I possibly have copied your key? Simple. It only takes a moment to make an impression, and I know people. We're wasting time, Lexa, and we both know we don't have much of it." 

Lexa's mind whirled with answers that only brought up more questions, but snagged on the fact that Clarke had called her Lexa, not Agent Woods, and maybe that was a slip or maybe it was intentional, and she didn't know if she could read anything into it, or if she should. 

"Why—?"

"Why am I here?" Clarke asked. "Because it was no longer safe to stay at my place. But you know that, don't you?" 

Lexa shook her head. She hadn't known. Not until it was too late, or she'd thought it was, and—

Clarke considered, then shrugged. "It doesn't matter. They're ransacking my apartment right now, but they won't find anything to use against either one of us. I was very careful about that." 

Lexa finally found her voice, although it came out in a choked whisper. "Why are you here?"

"I just answered that," Clarke said. 

"You didn't," Lexa said. "Not really. If you knew they were coming, if you had time to get away... why did you come _here_?" Did she think Lexa could help her? _Could_ Lexa help her? More importantly, _would_ she help her? If Clarke was part of this, it was Lexa's job to turn her over. Question her, or allow her to be questioned, and face justice for whatever crimes she'd committed.

But what crimes _had_ she committed? She'd painted a few pictures. She hadn't been the one breaking into museums and stealing priceless – although she was sure they commanded an incredibly steep price – works of art. 

"I'm not here to ask for help," Clarke said, as if she'd read Lexa's thoughts... although it wasn't exactly a leap to get to what Lexa had to be thinking. "I'm here to offer it."

"Cooperation in exchange for—"

Clarke laughed. She actually laughed, and the sound did things to Lexa's knotted-up insides she hadn't thought possible in a moment this fraught. "No," she said. "I'm here to help _you_." 

Lexa's blood turned to ice all over again. "You said they wouldn't find—"

Clarke shook her head. "They won't. Unless they really go over the place with a fine-tooth comb and find a bit of your hair or a fingerprint or something. I didn't have that much time to scrub things down. But no." She reached inside her jacket, and Lexa tensed, her hand immediately going for the service revolver that was on her hip. Clarke's calm, impassive mask finally slipped a little, and Lexa could see fear seeping through the cracks. "I'm not armed," she said. "Please. I need you to trust me."

_How?_ , Lexa thought. _How am I supposed to trust you when you stole my keys, broke into my apartment..._ But she had lied to Clarke, too, by omission if nothing else. She'd entered her apartment under false pretenses, and—

But had they been false pretenses? She'd entered Clarke's space at Clarke's invitation, and stayed at her request. She'd never once touched anything of Clarke's that wasn't offered to her. She'd left Agent Woods at the threshold, and was only ever Lexa with her, and—

Clarke held out a small blue booklet, taking a slow step closer so Lexa could see the embossed logo on the front. It was a passport, and when Clarke flipped it open, Lexa saw her own face looking back at her... but it wasn't her name. The name belonged to someone else... or no one else, and she was sure the rest of the information was equally fictitious. 

Except her birthday was right, and her eyes flicked up to Clarke. "How—?" 

"Did you think the only thing I forged was paintings?" Clarke asked, the barest hint of a smile curving her lips. "I'm good at what I do, Lexa. _Very_ good. Which is why I haven't been caught, and why I won't be caught unless you turn me in... and even then, good luck getting anything to stick." 

"They're bringing in—"

"I know," Clarke said. "It doesn't matter. They can only tell them – you – what they know, and what they know is what I want them to know. You can follow the chain straight to the top, and I hope you do. Because it'll lead you right to the bastard who thought he could use me. Who told me we were in this together, then stabbed me in the back. Joke's on him, though, because I took everything he taught me, everything he'd tried and failed to do, and did it, and did it better. But he'll get all of the credit... and none of the reward. And _that_ is justice." 

Lexa swallowed, her tongue darting out to wet suddenly dry lips. "Why are you telling me this?" If Clarke's scheme was so airtight there was no way it could be traced back to her, why was she telling Lexa, who was in a position to use it against her? Did she just want to watch Lexa try and fail to prove it? Could she, without incriminating herself somehow? 

Again, that ghost of a smile, and a flicker of something in Clarke's eyes that looked suspiciously like hope. "Because I'm here to make you an offer you are free to refuse... but I hope you won't."

Lexa tensed when Clarke took a step closer, close enough to touch but not touching. 

"Come with me," Clarke said. "Right now. Come with me."

Lexa's phone started vibrating in her pocket, and she had no doubt it was the agent in the car, wanting to know what was taking so long. She ignored it. "Where?"

"I have a place," Clarke said. "A place where no one will find us if we don't want to be found. My own private island, off the coast of a country with no extradition. I've been planning this for a long time, and these last few paintings... they gave me what I needed to set myself up for life. I'm getting out of the game. It's not fun anymore."

"Why—" Lexa swallowed. "Why me?"

"Why not you?" Clarke asked. 

"Because you don't know me," Lexa said. "Because I've lied—"

"Did you?" Clarke asked. "You didn't tell me what you do, who you work for. I didn't tell you that either. I didn't need to, because you already knew. Just like I already knew." She held up a hand before Lexa could ask how, which seemed to be the only word she knew anymore. "I know people," she said, "who have ways of finding things out. I'll tell you all about it on the plane." 

_On the plane._ Her flight was in two hours. Less, now. She was supposed to be grabbing her bag, getting in a car, then on a plane, heading to she didn't even know where to investigate she didn't know what, because she still hadn't looked at the file. And any minute the agent who was supposed to get her there would be barging in, sure something terrible had happened to her. 

And if Lexa went wherever they were sending her, something terrible would. 

"Let me grab my bag," she said. "My bike—"

"Is in the back," Clarke said. "I know. I'll meet you there." She pressed the passport into Lexa's – or whatever her name was now – hands, her touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary, and then she slipped out the front door and down the back stairs.

Lexa went to her room and grabbed the bag she always kept packed, because she never knew when she might be called upon to hop on a plane and head somewhere else to help with an investigation that had confounded local authorities, or another bureau. She looked at her phone, which was still vibrating insistently, and turned it off, then separated the key to her motorcycle from the rest and left them behind. She wouldn't be needing them anymore.

She spared only a quick glance out the window, where her driver was out of the car, his phone pressed to his ear, before following the path Clarke had taken. She half expected to find both the girl and the motorcycle gone when she got there, but no. Clarke was waiting, helmet already on, and Lexa quickly donned hers, giving Clarke a moment to settle on the back of the bike before swinging her leg over and twisting the key to bring it roaring to life. Clarke's arms slipped around her waist, a gentle pressure that electrified her nerves and settled them all at once. 

Getting to the street involved going right past her driver, and Lexa's stomach clenched as they rolled past, but he barely spared them a glance before going back to whatever conversation he was having on his phone. Calling for backup, maybe. Lexa turned the corner, and he disappeared from the rearview.

When they arrived at the airport, Clarke directed her with a series of points and squeezes, to forego the main entrance in favor of one that would lead them to where the private planes took off and landed. The security there – what little there was of it – barely gave her passport a second glance before they were waved through, and before Lexa knew it, they were being settled into the lush interior of a small private jet. 

"Last chance to have second thoughts," Clarke said as the small flight crew moved to seal the door. "Speak now, or forever—"

Lexa stopped her with a kiss that lingered until they were interrupted by a soft clearing of the throat. "You'll need to buckle up until we're safely in the air," the pilot – or maybe co-pilot, or maybe Clarke had her own personal flight attendant, Lexa didn't know and it didn't matter – said. 

"Thank you," Clarke said, settling back into her seat and fastening herself in. 

Lexa did the same, and when she looked over, she found Clarke's hand palm up in the space between them. She slid her own over it, lacing their fingers together. 

"How long—" she started to ask, but Clarke just smiled.

"Long enough," she said. "And then as long as you want." 

Which wasn't really an answer, but it was all Lexa needed to know for now. They had all the time in the world to figure out the rest.


End file.
